Tales of a Burnt Sienna Magi

2/10/11
1 am on the floor of a 2^nd story studio loft.  Saxophone solo bops over bass beats beneath an indistinct pop tune that drifts up from a bar across the street as I take a last drag and mash a cigarette butt in an old peanut can.  In a few moments what passes for music will be replaced by a flood of drunken babble and last minute bad decisions to fuck or fight, maybe both.  Neither romantic as we care to think.  A nights indiscretion followed by lip service “I'll call you” 's or walks of shame.  In a few weeks some will ponder the ever popular options: to keep or not to keep. 
      My choices have become drastically simpler since the recent imposition of adult timeout for the next five years.  Maybe pot will be legal by then.  Sure.  I am an addict addicted to passion.  A life of passionate striving.  I'm not selling anything nor advertizing.  I am far too self-centered and egomaniacal to waste my time convincing others that I'm awesome.  One of the “diseases that inhibit true mastery” is the desire to play a passive role, and with the personality of a hurricane it can be hard to tell when I'm really calm and not simply playing it cool.  The footing is precarious while dancing along the divide between the struggle to stay true to oneself or become who one is.  The intellect acts as a rolled ankle to the intuitive hip sway, but too much hip--like the loose lip--leads to the inevitable misstep.  A silver tongue gets bit and teeth chip when the jaw is knuckle clipped if a mouth runs away.